


Much Ado about Mystrade

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea Ships it with Force if Necessary, GOD HELP US, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Attempts to Manages His Own Emotions, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft To The Rescue, Mystrade Does Shakespeare, Theatre, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-11-14 22:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18060956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: Greg is Benedick in a charity production of Much Ado About Nothing. Their Beatrice falls sick the night Mycroft comes to wish Gregorybonne chance.And their understudy has another role to cover. And the other actors only know their parts.By the strangest coincidence, Mycroft happens to know the whole play backwards and forwards...





	1. The Show Must Go On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mottlemoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/gifts).



> For the fabulously talented Mottlemoth, who gifted me the use of some of her fabulous tags.
> 
> So, Much Ado is my fave Shakespeare play, and during my most recent re-read, I started hearing Rupert Graves' voice doing the Benedick lines. And this just... sorta happened.

 

The show is about to go on. They're curtain up in less than half an hour. Greg is getting finishing touches to his makeup when a stagehand bursts into the cramped prep area with a phone. Their Beatrice is not going to make it. 

"Please tell me you're taking the piss. Not very funny on opening night, but c'mon. You are, right? She's here." She's got to be here.  _He's_  always one of the last to get ready. She'll have already gotten painted and primed, and now she's just talking with the other girls somewhere with her feet up.

"Fraid not, sir. Her husband's on the phone."

Beka is a star. She's brilliant and fearless and has had everyone in stitches with her portrayal. She's no Emma Thompson - but then, who is? They'd been having a laugh after the tech rehearsal about the Scottish play, and in her typical fashion she'd been practically daring them with the name. Greg had warned her, as had the more hardcore drama geeks in their company, but she'd just laughed it off.

And now apparently she has a temperature of 39.5 and skin the color of moldy celery and her kid is also puking like a small vomit fountain.  _Fan-bloody-tastic_. Greg tells her to feel better and rings off, unsure how much she's comprehending through a fevered haze over the sound of copious cookie tossing.

This is fast becoming a nightmare. He hadn't wanted to get roped into this in the first place, but it's a charity performance and the DCI had insisted Greg's participation would set the example for volunteers and be a good draw. Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong. The Charing Cross Theatre is nearly sold out, and the idea that they might have to refund all that money makes him sick to his stomach. He wants to rake his fingers through his hair but Amilyn (a RADA graduate and PC who's a combination hair, makeup and costume authority and is credited as Mistress of Pretty in the donated programs) would _murder_ him. She's gotten them all dolled up and decked out every day for the past week of rehearsals, and woe to the person who musses anything from head to toe. 

They have exactly 2 understudies, Nick and Norah, who have learned everyone's lines as a fail-safe. But there's a problem with that too. Norah is now due on for Beth who plays their buxom Margaret, who another stagehand has just informed him is currently stuck in Lambeth with a steaming engine and not likely to make curtain up... even if she was willing to leave the wreck til later.

"Well, we're not likely to  _have_  a curtain up at all if we don't have someone to play Beatrice, now are we?!" Greg's roar almost blows Anthea back out the door she's just slipped through, but he calms down immediately at the sound of her approaching stilettos. "Hey, doll," he manages, only slightly weary in tone. She takes her eyes off her Blackberry just long enough to press a kiss to his cheek without leaving a trace. He sometimes wishes she'd give a lesson to his mum on that one. "Ta very much. What brings you by? Can't just be a wish to see lil' old me, and something tells me you and His Nibs are not the Am-Dram sort."

"On that point, you are not entirely correct, Detective Inspector." The posh voice that is a featured layer of the soundtrack to his filthiest fantasies comes from behind him, though how on earth Mycroft had gotten there without him noticing is as much a mystery as why he's even bothering to question such a thing anymore.

"My...croft," Greg manages smoothly as he turns to face the British Government. "Didn't see you there." The man himself deploys an eyebrow as if to retort that that was precisely the point. "So what am I wrong about this time?"

"Both Anthea and myself have trod the boards in our day - you were a stellar Cordelia, my dear, and your turn as Lucy Westenra set the Westport Dramatical Society firmly upon their ear." Before Greg can inquire about Mycroft's prior roles, the man spins his attention back from his PA. "And though you may find it difficult to credit, we did indeed stop by with the express purposes of seeing the play and you, and wishing you... potential injury to a lower extremity."

_Huh? Oh. Break a leg. Got it._

"Thanks. I think. Though there might not be a show for you to suffer through. We've... got no Beatrice. She's out sick and our Margaret is stuck in Lambeth and she won't leave her car but even if she ran all the way, the show'd still start late. And we've only got the one understudy and she's a better age match for our Hero anyway so her doing Margaret makes sense and she's been really nervous doing all those scenes opposite me in rehearsal since I look old enough to be her dad and... Sorry. I'm rambling."

Except they might not have noticed, because there's a silent conversation taking place between the 'minor' government official and his stalwart PA and it's fascinating the hell out of Greg, if only because eyebrow semaphore is not something he could've imagined, let alone think he might witness in his lifetime.

"You know, Inspector-"

"Anthea-" The warning growl is... bloody hot and very much  **not**  something he needs to be focusing on right now.

"Back in his school days-"

"One more syllable and you will be dealing with the Russian delegation in  _flats!_ "

For an instant it looks as if the threat might've worked. Mycroft's mouth has just opened to release a sigh of relief when Anthea drops the payload in a well-enunciated rush.

"Mr. Holmes did back to back productions as Benedick  _and_  Beatrice. Knows every last line."

Some foreign expletive bursts out of Mycroft's mouth like a bat fleeing Hades and he's turning a rather charming shade of pink. Greg, on the other hand, looks like Father Christmas just pitched up and handed him a winning lottery ticket and a sixer of Strongbow.

"Really? Smashing! I mean, we're already pushing the edge of the envelope at 20 til, but if we had to give refunds on all those tickets, the whole charity night's a bit of a bust, y'know?"

_Is that all?_ Mycroft is willing to draw out his chequebook and write off the whole night, cover every expense, pen double any figure necessary to avoid this level of purgatorial public humiliation... but Anthea grabs his wrist as it attempts to snake into his blazer and drags him a short distance away, still tapping away at her phone with one manicured thumbnail as they walk.

"Unhand me this instant."

"Sir. Don't."

"You cannot  _possibly_  expect me to go through with this."

"You'll be helping out the Detective Inspector, not to mention providing substantial aid to a children's charity, sir."

"I can do that sufficiently with a flick of my pen, if you'll just unhand me!"

She does and resumes a dual digit assault on the keys. "Sir." There is a swift inhalation, then she hits him full force with her gaze. "I understand you'd rather not do this." He has time to open his mouth and start reaching into his pocket again before she continues, stopping him cold. "And I also know the real reason why."

"Anthea..." He looks pained.

"Mr. Holmes... your well-being is the pinnacle of my list of priorities," she begins gently. "You have trained me exceedingly well. And I... hope you will trust my assessment of the situation that everything will be alright. Besides, the Russian delegation seemed rather jetlagged upon arrival, sir. Postponing the meeting until the morning will be seen as a kindness, and how much more likely are they to be... _a_ _menable_  to our suggestions if they're well-rested _and_ in our debt?"

Mycroft barely stifles a whimper in the face of such unfortunately sound logic. He should never have begun training her in arguments and combative diplomacy technique. She was already too smart for her own good. He turns to find the Detective Inspector approaching to check on the situation. Anthea firmly shoves him in the man's path and bids them adieu on her way to the front of the house.

"So... is it yes?" The man's face bears the same cautious optimism of a puppy hoping for a belly rub, and Mycroft suddenly can't bring himself to say no... or anything else, for that matter. He manages a weak smile and a small nod. "Smashing!" The Detective Inspector's warm, work-rough fingers cuff around his wrist and tug him gently along to a curtained area, presenting him and the idea simultaneously to their Mistress of Pretty. Amilyn isn't exactly in favour of the idea. 

"You can't have a Beatrice who's taller than Benedick!" She bemoans even while plucking a suitable dress off a rack and finding a pair of flat espadrilles to complete the look. They'll have to breeze him through makeup as soon as he's dressed.

"Well, why not?" Greg counters, shrugging into his jacket. "Either of the girls was gonna have to wear heels to be in my range anyway, short of having them stand on a box for our scenes, and this is a bit too perfect for the switcheroo during the ending!" Mycroft manages a questioning glance at the DI before he's summarily shoved behind a screen to change. Greg raises his voice a bit to explain while doing his damnedest not to think of Mycroft stripping down just over a meter away. "Y'see the girl we've got as our Hero - Dot - she's a lovely thing, starter for her school's netball team. 6 feet if she's an inch! You'll be much more the 'almost copy' of her for the wedding at the end than either of the ones we could've had."

Amilyn grudgingly concedes the point that having a girl in stocking feet still 3 inches taller than the one in 5 inch heels did somewhat ruin the illusion of Claudio's "which girl am I supposed to marry?" quandary. She grabs a wig and shoves Greg out of the dressing area and sets to on Mycroft the instant he emerges like the meteorologist groundhog they have in the States. He's shoved in a chair and doctored and dolled and 90 seconds before curtain, he's standing on the far side behind a masker, willing his heart to kindly slow the hell down.

He cannot do this. Every line is going to leave his head. The set's going to fall down and he'll get punched before the end of Act I. It's going to be an unmitigated disaster and he'll be tarred and feathered in the alley behind Whitehall, his pathetic corpse paraded in front of 10 Downing Street in retribution for the shame he's brought upon Queen and country.

There's a stage door a mere 9 meters back and to the left. If he slips out now, he can be in Uruguay in a matter of hours.

Then again... if he  _doesn't_  do this, the show will fail anyway. Anthea will hunt him down and murder him with her unsuitable shoes. Were she beside him and not safely ensconced in the comfortable darkness of the theatre beyond, she'd likely be offering reassurances as truth - that he can do this, that he'll be just fine if he remembers to breathe. The hall in his mind palace that holds his memories of his school days has not yet been walled off, and he's never mastered the art of deletion the way his brother has. He  _does_  know every line. He could probably recite the whole thing start to finish like some twisted performance artist if required. In his heart, he realises he probably will be quite alright. They're just going old-school for this one. All the parts were played by men in Shakespeare's day. It will be fine. He doesn't even have to worry about walking in heels.

The hardest acting he will be required to do all night is making sure Gregory doesn't realise any passionate declarations he might make are more truth than fiction.


	2. A brief interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is a complete smash, holding the audience in the palm of his long-fingered hand. But there's this little matter of a huge scene coming up...

_Wit and wordplay are practically genetic to Holmeses_ , Greg thinks. And Mycroft looks rather fetching in a curling red wig, a touch of greasepaint and a swishy dress. They'd been all for classical costumes until someone brought by a copy of the Tennant and Tate production that had them all rolling, followed up with that Whedon chap's black & white go. It had sparked a lively debate in the group about presentation and interpretation, and so they'd elected for modern clothing. 

Greg and the Prince's 'officers' are attired in sunglasses and nice suits, looking like members of the Royal Security Services. The ladies of the group are in cocktail dresses and things that hint of vintage and class, their maids and attendants in simpler garb. Don John and his minions are dressed like Bond Street villains, played with a touch of smarm like they're about to sell you a gram of cocaine in a dim club. Leonato and his brother are dressed in tweeds and kilts, their renditions of the Italian brothers as Scottish lairds owing to the heritage of the actors but everyone is having such a blast no one minds. And Mycroft is there, cool as the proverbial cucumber in a midnight blue dress patterned over with silver and red, lines of mirth and biting wit delivered in a mellifluous voice that has a few people doing subtle double takes that some secret sister has not replaced their last-minute fill in.

The cast is enchanted, one or two cues nearly missed as everyone stands a bit entranced by this creature treading the boards in their midst. Greg almost hates his character for being such a git right now. He's always wondered about their history, the "before" hinted at in some of Beatrice's speeches, how the man could've ever let such a lady go and call himself a man. He goes stalking offstage to escape the 'dish he loves not' and gets to watch as the characters conclude the party scene. There's something about to happen he feels almost desperate to see.

Gerald, the guy cast as Don Pedro the Prince, is playing up his flirtation and admiration of Mycroft's character. As they chat after the masquerade, and the Prince makes his proposal (played as jesting or serious depending on the version) Gerald plays it with absolute sincerity. This man is definitely asking in earnest, though half-hid in quiet caution lest he be turned down - as he summarily but charmingly is a few lines later. Greg knows Gerald. He's a good sort, out at work and open about it when necessary but not problematically so. He doesn't try to pull anyone in the rank and file, and Greg stands him a pint at the Red Lion at least twice a month when the gang goes out. He's a good sort, truly.

But if he doesn't stop holding Mycroft's hand and drowning him in courtly compliments and looking at him like his heart is about to be offered up on a bed of roses, Greg's gonna put his fist through a wall.

The audience seems to be enjoying everything they're putting on with immense gusto. They're laughing and oohing and gasping in all the right spots and whether he knows it or not, Mycroft is cradling the theatre in the elegant palm of his long-fingered hand. He takes a brilliant pratfall during the bit where Beatrice "overhears" of Benedick's unrequited love for her, and it seems everyone is holding their breath until he pops up again unharmed - at which point they're roaring with laughter. Greg isn't sure what part of a 'minor position in the government' would require stunt-level training but he'd give his eyeteeth to find out.

It's been a while since he did anything like this - a bit of goofing in secondary and Uni trying to win points with this guy or that girl in the Dramatic Society, until the directors kept casting him and the audiences kept liking him and everyone said they'd be expecting him on their telly in 5 years - but Greg remembers what it's like when the gods of the theatre universe smile on you. Everyone's getting on and off without a hitch and hitting marks and nailing lines and the audience is falling in love with you easy as breathing and buying every word you say til the curtain goes down. It's amazing.

When Borachio and Margaret are having their assignation under the planted eyes below, someone lets out an 'oh no' that's quickly muffled. Anderson and Dimmock pitch up as Dogberry and Verges and the audience is howling at the portrayal done as David Brent doing a bumbling detective, with a bit of Keaton thrown in for good measure.

There's a short intermission after Act 3, so the audience can buy refreshments while the cast grabs a smoke between quick changes and touch-ups on their makeup, or gulps down some water and protein bites so they don't fall over before the end. 2 acts to go, then the curtain call, and no one wants to get cocky and jinx the whole business but the positive atmosphere backstage is like a soap bubble filled with sunshine.

Mycroft is gonna be in a lush green raw silk for this bit and he looks like a woodland fairy, all the beauty of Titania married with the nobility of a Tolkien elf. Greg's almost breathless, unable to pull his eyes away as Amilyn touches him up and hands him his blue suit for the wedding scene. There's almost no time when the lights flash to get the audience seated and settled, but Mycroft catches him up and tugs Greg back into a little alcove by his elbow. For one wild moment, he thinks the government official means to kiss him - then gets a ruddy grip on his brain's imaginative but foolish attempt to crack his sanity like an egg.

"What's up?"

"Our... scene. After the wedding."  _Everyone scarpers, you cry, we admit we love each other and you ask me to kill my mate for slut-shaming your cousin and walking off. Yeah?_ Greg knows exactly what he's referring to, but if there's a problem he's not seeing it as clearly as he's picking out the tiny flecks of gunmetal and silver in Mycroft's piercingly blue eyes. "...Gregory?"

He's startled back into the moment with a blink. "What?"

"I said, how do you wish to play this? I will of course defer to your preference. Charity, even one so noble as this one, is insufficient reason for you to do something with which you are uncomfortable."

He's trying - honestly he is - but he's keenly aware he's still missing something. And the stagehands are hustling them apart to take their places for the wedding processional, and all he has time to whisper is a determinedly bright "S'all fine, Myc. Just roll with it! I'll catch you." He doesn't know what they were talking about so he's not sure if it was the right answer, but Mycroft's mild shell-shocked look cast over his shoulder as he's led the opposite way doesn't give Greg any further hints.

The lights come up and the aborted wedding has just begun and Greg swallows hard, aware their big scene is next. He already knows Mycroft's gonna blow the doors off it. But Greg finds his mind wandering in the lead up to Claudio ripping into his fiancee, running lines and positions for the rest of the scene in his head. He goes after his lady, they confess their mutual affection, there's a kiss, 'hey I need you to kill someone' and lights out. He hadn't done anything with Beka or Norah beyond an air kiss, a pantomime with a tight-lipped press and a few head tilts, hands blocking how far their mouths actually were, and oh merciful Christ that's what Mycroft had been trying to ask! Benedick and Beatrice are meant to  **kiss**  after declaring their love for each other - a sweet tearful passionate thing before she bids him do anything in the world for her. What the hell was he going to do? The lads in Shakespeare's day probably went the panto route - though who really knew? Half the joke was probably that these "lovers" were two blokes having a snog onstage in front of the groundlings and swells alike.

Times have changed, so he keeps hearing, and he cautiously walks both sides of the street, more interested in the contents of someone's character than the shape of tin they come in. But Mycroft? Brother of Sherlock "everyone else is a goldfish compared to us" Holmes, who'd gone from a girlfriend that wasn't real to a cuddly, jumper-wearing ex-Army blogger that very much was? It was anyone's guess. He and Anthea could have been together for ages. He could have a wife and 4 kids in a house in Mayfair, or share a Kensington flat with some sweet barrister named Jeff that rescues dogs and makes pasta and liked to hold hands at the opera. He could have a string of one-off lovers that would span the Atlantic. 

Or... he could be like Greg. Lonely, and unable to find anyone to be not lonely with for very long, and starting to believe that that might never change.

_Just roll with it. I'll catch you._

He'd meant it. But he has no bloody idea what else he can do, and he's out of time to think. 

Claudio and the Prince dole out their unbelievable cruelty to Hero, and she faints prettily as people scarper stage right to leave her for dead. Don John sips smugly from a flask and his cohorts grab hunks of the abandoned cake with their fingers as they take off, and the lairds are in plausible pain as Greg manages his lines like he's trying to make sense of a crime scene, and everyone else leaves through the back. Benedick 'follows' Beatrice through a stage left doorway and the set turns a bit, revealing more of a room where Mycroft is curled on the end of an elegant sofa nursing a glass of juice. Beka'd been back and forth on wine versus whisky (cran-grape versus apple) for the scene as the character is a noblewoman in Italy but being played as a modern lady at a Scottish estate so they'd just decided to leave a bottle of each on the set and she could pick on the night. 

Mycroft's Lady B opted for wine and a posture that suggests dejected exhaustion, as though she's a mere cutout someone had carelessly flung on the sofa. Affecting a 1000 yard stare as she drinks with a cold numbness he can almost feel rolling off her like fog on a bay, the picture presented is... breathtaking.

"Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?"

Mycroft struggles to sit up but doesn't answer right away, taking another sip and staring into the depths of the glass as though it holds all the answers to the secrets of the universe.

"Yea, and I will weep awhile longer." His voice, still creditably feminine, has taken on a raw edge, almost androgynous in its pain. A few pockets of faint sniffling have broken out in the audience as they seem wholly content to join Mycroft in his grieving.

"I would not desire that." And really he wouldn't. There is something deeply unsettling about seeing this man cry that makes every nerve in Greg's body ache to comfort him, the way he'd been half allowed at Sherlock's funeral, one arm tight around Mycroft's shoulders as they stood by the graveside, a glass of something strong shared in silence that night after everyone else had gone.

Their back and forth is slower, softer now than their earlier 'skirmishes of wit' and they're moving closer like planets dancing in a shrinking orbit.

"I do love nothing in the world so well as you... is not that strange?" His voice is slightly wondering, a bit amazed as he gently speaks as though trying to gentle a frightened animal. Mycroft turns fully towards him and his eyes are wide and wet, luminous under the stage lights and rimmed in kohl that hasn't dripped a centimeter despite very real tears. The fragile yearning there - so terrified to dare hope such words could be real - makes Greg's heart squeeze until it wants to shatter.

"As strange as the thing I know not..." Mycroft's hand flutters to rest over his heart, and Greg is certain he'll feel the way the organ is pounding pell-mell against the bars of his ribcage. They make their declarations and the line is nearly upon them, and Greg has fully slipped into the skin of the character. Whatever will be will be, scripted by fate. His heart is taming itself to the loving hand that still lies atop it, but his Beatrice's other hand comes up to cup his cheek as his hands settle about her waist, pulling her infinitesimally nearer.

"I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest!"

He's not certain which of them moves. Perhaps they shift in tandem, moving in unconscious lockstep, but their mouths meet for the first time and there's a rising 'whooo!' from the audience like they're filming a sitcom just before the world shatters silently into a falling burst of light like a firework. There's a trace of salt in the seam of Beatrice's lips, and Benedick's tongue traces it with adoring reverence, seeking entrance to the divine place beyond. Fingers are tangling in his hair and his are curling tenderly into a slim waist and their tongues are sliding over one another as a breathless moan passes in the guise of a sigh.

He pulls back and sets tiny kisses to cheek and brow and nose and chin, pressing their foreheads together as he entreats his love bid him do anything to prove his devotion.

"K-ill Claudio." The bloodthirsty reply snaps his eyes open and he finds Mycroft's already staring at him, a hard light shining in their depths like a gemstone, robbing them of their loving softness.

_Oh. Shit. Mycroft... forgive me._

"Not for the wide world." 

Those aristocratic nostrils flare and Beatrice bolts off the couch, necessitating his pursuit and capture before she can fully flee the space. The feel of Mycroft struggling in his arms is hard to bear, as is stopping himself from burying his nose in the join of neck and shoulder peeking through those springing curls. They're meant to be fighting. 

It's not that kind of fight.

The elder Holmes wrenches himself out of the restraining arms and the following speech is desperately impassioned and Greg almost forgets to breathe as the scene unfurls in front of him. In a similar manner to Julie Andrews' turn as a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman in  _Victor Victoria,_ there's something extra in Mycroft's delivery of Beatrice's lines wishing she were a man. It sends a shiver down his spine that thankfully kickstarts his brain before he misses his cues. The speech concludes as Mycroft crumples in on himself, and Greg catches him tenderly, guiding them both back to the sofa and holding him close.

"By this hand, I love thee."

"Then use it for my love some other way than swearing by it," Beatrice implores. It's a gauntlet being thrown down, a dare for him to take it up for love's sake. She affirms her soul-deep belief in Claudio's villainy and deserving death, and he presses a kiss to the hand that has somehow become linked with his in the last few moments.

"Enough, I am engaged." Benedick draws a deep breath, plausible for a man about to challenge a friend considered a brother at the behest of the one he loves. The rest of his lines are delivered with a gravity he hadn't managed in rehearsals, and he watches Mycroft's form swish sadly offstage before he throws himself back into the cushions with a weary sigh, plows his fingers through his hair and waits for the lights to go out.

The theatre explodes in applause as he moves off the opposite side, barely noticing the glow-in-the-dark tape lines that have been a godsend during scene changes, lest one of them fall into the orchestra pit and break their neck. Hands are clapping his shoulders as he passes and there are awed whispers telling him how good the scene went, and he isn't processing any of it.

He'd kissed Mycroft Holmes.  _Sod that._  He'd all but hauled Mycroft bloody Holmes into his lap and passionately snogged the man breathless on a brightly lit stage before a room crammed full of elitist donors and several of his bosses! His lips are still tingling, his stomach is roiling like the Weird Sisters' cauldron and his heart is somewhere under his left instep. This was a nightmare. 

No. This was **worse**  than a nightmare. This had actually happened.

He is so screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me yet! There's a concluding chapter coming! I'm just working on a sticky bit and then you'll see how this all plays out.


	3. And... Curtain!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their final scene plays out.

He's lost a bit of time and the 'examination' scene is well underway, the audience's chuckling muted by the curtains as his feet carry him unbidden to the other side of the stage. They have to be alright. They can't  _not_  be alright. He just needs to look Mycroft in the eyes and he'll have his answer. Either he lives to fight crime another day, or resigns himself to manning a radio tower in Antarctica til he dies.

But Mycroft is nowhere to be found. Norah says she loaned him her lighter to go grab a cig, but there's nothing but a butt smoked half-down smoldering in the alleyway. Gerald smirks a bit as he mentions Mycroft brushing by him on his way to makeup, and the hand that  **could**  smack that look off his face just claps his shoulder instead. Amilyn says she'd just finished touching up his lipstick before he rooted through his clothes and took off again with his mobile and she doesn't know where Greg thinks  _he's_  going but he can sit his arse down and get fixed too before he has to go threaten Claudio. He argues that he's fine, he just needs to find Mycroft for a second - but he's really no match for her unless he's prepared to move her physically. So he sits, cursing his fate and twitching until Amilyn releases him with a minute or so to spare til his entrance.

He spies Mycroft typing furiously on his mobile with a "do not dare to disturb" expression writ large on his features, and slinks off to the shadows, paying scant attention so he doesn't miss his cue. Mycroft texts and waits and texts and waits and for all Greg knows, he could be drafting a treaty with global ramifications or alerting his private paramour that some scruffy DI had just snogged him onstage or plotting Greg's systemic removal from the Met, the UK and the Eastern Hemisphere at large in that or no particular order.

_Shit._  The lairds are off and that's him. He steps onstage, grim and solemn, well reflecting his character not being remotely in the mood to cheer up the men seeking his jovial companionship. Benedick's movements are once again his own as he lashes out at Claudio and declares him a villain and tells off Gerald's flirtatious, oblivious Prince with freezing civility.

He's off for a few minutes while the truth bomb drops on the hapless young Florentine and the lairds issue their ultimatum, but Mycroft is no more approachable than when he'd left. Norah braves the ice wall to get her lighter, which is handed over before she can even open her mouth, but other than that the furious texting session continues unabated. 

The lights dim and he skins out of his jacket and tie and suddenly he's a half-undone, lovestruck dope, pleading with Norah to fetch her lady and hopelessly trying to pen poetry while waiting for his beloved to appear. His nerves are as jangled as piano keys under a cat's paws. Greg waits, watching intently as Mycroft approaches and playfully puts him off when he tries to plant a kiss and doesn't quite meet his eye until Ursula bursts in bearing good news and demanding them to follow her. Blue meets brown while Greg's breath catches in his chest and- it's like staring at a shuttered window, no clear view offered into what lies beyond. He is no closer to an answer than he'd been before. Damnation.

But he flirts and lands a peck on Mycroft's razor-sharp cheekbone and they exit giggling and clasping hands while the audience cheers behind them. The instant they're off Mycroft tries to pull away but Greg holds firm, leaving their fingers laced and dragging Mycroft off a little ways to where Anthea had taken him earlier. They don't have time for this right now and he knows it, but damn it they need to  **make**  the time.

The one small mercy is that he doesn't  _have_  to be in the funeral scene, standing silent and trying not to fidget like a bored tyke in church while a solemn score in lone plaintive guitar hovers over Claudio reading the epitaph to his "dead" love.

"Are we okay?" 

Mycroft stops trying to extract himself from Greg's hold and flashes a quick look up through mascaraed lashes that look fake they're so long. It's amazing they don't tangle when it's breezy, or have to be combed out each night like his niece's hair. 

Almost as amazing as the way he's never noticed them before.

The gaze drops back down to the hand still retaining his. "Of course, Inspector. We're... fine. Why would we not be?" Mycroft's tone is calm and quiet and civil- civil as an orange and frankly scaring the hell out of Greg even before the words hit home.

Inspector. Not Gregory. Not even Lestrade. His heart feels like it's splintering under the strain, and the smile he's forcing his lips into makes his face feel it might break any second, but at least it's an answer. Not the one he'd wanted, not even the one he couldn't admit he'd hoped for, but... at least he knows.

He gently disentangles their fingers and lets Mycroft go, stepping back and trusting his voice to reflect relief and not despair.

"Great! S'great. Just... wanted to check." There's not time for a cigarette, but even if all he gets is a drag off one he nicks from whoever's in the alley in the next 10 seconds it'll be enough. He thinks he hears Mycroft calling him, but dismisses it as a fanciful trick of the mind. One lungful of sweet burning smoke and he feels just a teensy bit better.

They're almost done. He clings to the thought like a lifeline, the smallest twine leading him through now. Just one or two quick bits to go. One scene and a playful roundabout and a kiss to stop Beatrice's mouth that he'll tip Mycroft back to deliver so no one can see the reality of their distance. Then curtain up, take a bow, and the night can be declared a success.

_Showtime._

The truth will have been told so the world can be set right and the bad guys will be dealt with tomorrow. It is a comedy after all. All that's left is to wrap the B plot.

Greg supposes he should be happy it's going well for  _someone_.

"Do not you love me?" It's such a simple line to cause him such pain, physical and real as a pen knife behind the ear. He's had to pull on a poker face to deal before, pretend his heart wasn't breaking or his gut wasn't twisted into knots or his hands weren't shaking with the effort of not wrapping themselves around some prick's neck. Right now, he is the greatest actor in the world.  _I'd like to thank the Academy._

Their sheltering banter about how little they care for each other ends with a firm handshake and Greg's fingers are tingling even as his mind casts him way back, years ago to one of their earliest Sherlock talks. They'd just finished dinner for the first time, and were stood outside his flat after Mycroft insisted on seeing him home. Neither had been wearing gloves and the press of Mycroft's skin to his own had seared itself into his memory like a brand of ownership.

Their own hands against their hearts indeed.

"Peace! I will stop your mouth." He wraps his arms around Mycroft and rotates them into a deep dip facing upstage, trying to ignore the way Mycroft's own limbs are locking tightly around his neck. He leans in a bit more, the tips of their noses brushing as he keeps their mouths a safe distance apart. There are unreadable things swirling in the depths of Mycroft's eyes, glittering in the band of light from above, and over the roaring crowd Greg hastens to reassure him in a whisper that sends the wind of his words caressing parted lips he'd far rather be capturing with his own one last time. "S'alright. You're safe. All done now. Up on 3, ready?"

They swing back and straighten, though Greg keeps an arm about Mycroft's waist as he defends his newly reformed state. "This is my conclusion..." though instead of the press of his mouth to that of the man in his tentative embrace he nuzzles his temple instead. The villain is packed off, and after imploring the saddened Gerald to get a wife, the 'hey nonnies' break out, joined by the audience in a raucous chorus and they all dance off to form into lines for curtain call.

He and Mycroft are the last on stage and the already screaming cheers and applause grow doubly deafening as they run in from opposite ends, clasp hands and head downstage to present one another. The rest of the cast joins them and they take bow after bow after bow, finally slipping off for the last time while the director and head of the charity board thank the audience for their attendance and generosity.

There's a bit of a do after this, cocktails and such once they're out of the paint and threads. They've been strongly encouraged to attend (especially if all went well so their patrons could coo over them in closer proximity) but it's not strictly mandatory.  _Might've been nice if-_  but he's not going. Greg forces through the crush backstage, changes quickly, applies cold cream and a flannel with harsh vigour until his face is ruddily clean, makes his excuses and grabs his kit before heading to hang up his costumes.

The red wig is already on a foam head, Beatrice's dresses hanging on the mostly empty rack at the end opposite his own. He refuses to look around.

He can take himself home and have a proper meal and collapse into bed without drinking himself unconscious or trying to put his head on a rail at the tube station down the way from his flat. He'll be fine. He has to be.

The alleyway outside the stage door is mostly empty, a few early breaking theatregoers having a smoke or just grabbing some cool air to wait for autographs. He scribbles on a few things shoved in his sightline and murmurs something convincingly grateful before trying to make good his escape. He's made it one step off the kerb when a sleek black towncar pulls up, wheels narrowly missing his toes. The back door pops open.

"If you please, Detective Inspector." If he hadn't just spent the better part of 2 hours watching the man, he'd  _almost_  believe Mycroft Holmes had been elsewhere tonight, running the world from some posh office or sitting in contented quiet at the Diogenes. There's a tiny streak of makeup by his ear.

"Nah, m'alright, Mr. Holmes. I'll walk, thanks." Greg tries to push the door closed so he can be on his way, but Mr. Holmes' bodyguard is suddenly at his shoulder, crowding him into the space. Greg sighs. "We've been over this. Ya can't just kidnap an officer of the Metropolitan Police Service."

Without another word, he's lifted bodily, folded with exquisite care and placed inside on the seat, the door closing and the lock engaged before he's had time to fully unfurl himself and pin the posh man sat beside him with a quality glare.

"Damn it, Myc- Mr. Holmes! We talked about this! There's a score of officers within shouting distance." He stabs his thumb onto the window button. "You'll be up on charges in half an hour!"  _Even if you'll be walking out of them 5 minutes past that._

But the window doesn't go down and the car is already sliding away like a ghost into the darkness and the shot he  **knows**  he could get in before someone or something from the front seat stops him suddenly doesn't feel worth it. He scrambles to the seat opposite and smooths his hands over his clothes, not meeting Mycroft's eye. He's not having a drink, he won't go to dinner and he's not laying a bloody finger on the man now seated across from him. He'll keep his mouth shut and they can jolly well take him to his doorstep. He crosses his arms with a huff and hunkers into the plush leather.

"Inspector."

The flashing of the lights as the city slides past the glass remind him of Morse Code.  _Probably just the universe warnin' me never to do anything like this again._

"Lestrade."

He's not looking. He won't. Mycroft can chuck him out on the pavement if he wants. Anything is preferable to seeing... whatever's lurking in those bright blue eyes.

" _Gregory._ " 

He's not sure how a word can sound like an impatient warning shot, but Mycroft manages it.

"O, Benedick?"

It's probably the undertone of amusement that does it, the feeling of a mouse being toyed with by a lion before it swallows him whole. 

"Jeez, Mycroft..." He plows his fingers through his hair and over his face, exhaling into a defeated slump against the seat. "I'm sorry. Okay? What the hell else do you  _want_  from me? A written apology or shall we keep up the Shakespeare and just give you a pound of my flesh?"

The man blinks, temporarily stunned into revelatory facial expression, though Greg is too eaten up with annoyance and anxiety to feel very chuffed over the feat.

"Gregory... you seem to be labouring under the misapprehension that I am angry with you, or otherwise upset."

"Aren't you?" he tosses back defensively.

An unreadable expression (though is there any other sort when it comes to a Holmes?) alights on the man's face; he seems to be coming to some sort of decision. Moving with the sleek grace of a jungle cat, Mycroft shifts to the opposite seat, angled slightly so his knee touches Greg's. "Not at all."

The single point of contact is like a live wire, sending intermittent sparks up Greg's leg and lighting up his brain like a tangle of Christmas lights. He can't focus on anything else. Then Mycroft's sinfully long digits arrange themselves with care midway up Greg's thigh and there's a ringing in his ears like a slot machine.

_Oh._

"Thought... you were mad, that I'd gone too far with that kiss, taken a liberty or something."

"Dear Gregory..." The tone is fond, warm... hopeful. "That kiss was... one of the greatest thrills of my life thus far. It gave me... hope. For though I never dared dream such a thing would happen to someone like me - namely, me - you... seem to like me. For myself, as I am."

"Myc..." Greg's hand covers the one still resting on his thigh like an indolent tarantula, giving it a fond squeeze to convey what his words may fail to impart. "Course I like you. Been gone on you for ages. Just... thought you were out of my league, is all. Posh boy, Sherlock's big brother, 'minor' role in government..." They share a smile over the in-joke. "What'd you ever want with a scruffy DI like me?"

"There are many things,  _Gregory_ , that one could want with a man such as you. And a great many things that I desire about you, and wish to do with you and you alone.  _Decidedly_  so."

He slants a look at the man, a cheeky grin playing in the corners of his mouth. "So you didn't mind me takin' liberties earlier?"

The sight of it nearly stops his heart, but if Greg were blind as a bat, he'd still hear the radiant smile in Mycroft's tone. "You, my dear, may take as many liberties as you want... so long as I am permitted at least a few of my own."

He's scooted a little closer, letting the length of his thigh press against Mycroft's and his fingers toy with a carved button on the posh as hell waistcoat.

"Take me home, Mycroft... and you'll be 'permitted' as many liberties as you can stand. Just-" His eyes snap into the other man's with a near audible  _click_ and his breath catches like a hangnail, unexpected and a little painful, all teasing suddenly driven out. He doesn't do casual well, and this night has already proven unpredictable in more ways than one. If there's the  _slightest_  chance this isn't just a one-off... that Mycroft might ever feel the way he's felt since that first night so long ago... "Just don't mess me about. Please. If feelin's are out of it, I wanna know. After.... I  _need_ to know."

"I take it you would prefer the truth?" The question is a whisper, painfully shy in its reserve. Greg feels himself bracing for potential impact.

"When possible."

Ice blue eyes pierce his soul as the gap between them narrows further. Long fingers slide through his hair like fish in water, and Greg shivers at the graze of manicured nails on his scalp. Surprisingly warm lips kiss up his jawline and dot kisses over his cheekbone until they come to rest by his ear.

"I do love nothing in the world so well as you." Greg gulps, fancying he can hear the startled noise echoing in the stillness of the cabin. "Is not that strange?" Teeth are set with infinite care against the flesh of his earlobe, and his fingers are clutching at the costly fabric wrapped around the man beside him before he has time to think.

This can't be possible; it's some crazed dream, but damn if he's not gonna roll with it to the end of the line and pray he never awakens.

"As...  _ahhh_.... as strange as the thing I - oh _, yeah! Right there_! I know not."

"Mmm... Greg-ooooh!-ry..."

**

Anthea taps a button on her Blackberry and mutes the audio feed from the towncar with a delighted smile.

_Bravo, sir._   _It's about bloody time!_  

Watching those two orbit one another has become her favourite torturous pastime over the last few years. The 'will they, won't they?' is better than any soap opera, the furtive looks of longing never failing to make a dramatic orchestra start up in her head. They were as beautifully tragic as anything in Bronte or Austen.

But enough was just about enough. She'd been on the verge of knocking their heads together, or just locking them in the same room with a large comfortable bed overnight until sensuality prevailed over sense and sensibility... when fortune smiled. Upon hearing about the charity performance, Mr. Holmes (sainted patron of the arts that he was) had authorised the purchase of tickets, as well as a sizable second donation to be made anonymously. He adored Shakespeare, and this was a particular favourite of his. The fact that he'd be spending a few hours watching the man he was hopelessly stuck on spouting prose he found similarly beautiful and hard to resist was just a bonus. Perhaps a late supper could be suggested, and she could conveniently forget something in the car - and then absent herself with it. Simple enough.

However her monitoring of the Lestrade situation handed over a different option. Their charming Beatrice didn't take the curse of the Scottish play seriously. Anthea's own theatre career (as well as her Highland heritage) meant something... in the form of a certain classified spray applied to the woman's morning latte.

And then the simple matter of a small electronic in the engine of their current Margaret, to be tripped a certain distance from the theatre and to be removed by one of their own when the car was serviced free of charge the following morning... which would prompt their understudy to take the path of least resistance.  _Away_  from acting the romantic lead opposite a certain DI.

All that remained was to get Mr. Holmes backstage with her around the time the Detective should be receiving the news... and let the sequence of events unfold.

All had been going quite well, better than she could've hoped... until the Scene. Following their impressively passionate onstage kiss, her employer had been frantically texting her about what if anything the moment had meant, and what in God's name he was to do next, and how swiftly a seat on the next flight to the Far East could be arranged for him when this damned thing exploded spectacularly in his face like a loaded cigar. Anthea being Anthea, calm had been restored, advice carefully given and a plan suggested to roll around Mr. Holmes' head while she stood in the back of the audience with metaphorical crossed fingers.

A single text raised her flagging matchmaking spirit into a proudly fluttering banner.  _May I request your help with some logistics?_

The 'advance notices' she heard before cutting the feed are promising. She's already cleared Mr. Holmes' morning calendar, and the Inspector has the day off tomorrow for his services tonight. If they can keep their clothes on til the car's pulled away from Mr. Holmes' fully stocked townhouse, they won't have to spend their first night together dealing with a charge of public indecency.

The stage has been set, the leads are in place...

The show is about to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this has been my little exploration of Shakespeare through a Mystrade lens. Hope you've all had as much fun on this journey as I have.
> 
> Kudos and comments warmly appreciated. I'm gonna run onstage and take a bow with Greg and Myc.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are like flowers on opening night. Comments are thunderous applause.


End file.
